The Persian Excursion, tentatively
by KaptainKlancy
Summary: Chapter 1 is now up, Chapter 2 is ready to be typed, and Chapter3 is on the way! The story of how the Persian aka, the Daroga met Erik. If you don't know who Erik is, I pity you.
1. The Fair at St Petersburg

In the center of the fair was a large reddish tent, ballooning up like a sail with the wind beneath it. As I approached, I could make out the muffled strains of oriental instruments weaving their intoxicating melodies inside. When I reached the door of the tent, a dark man with a thick black beard and loose-fitting pants in the Turkish style pulled the opening away so that I may walk through. I ducked my head so that my fez cap would not be knocked off by the doorway's low frame and was immediately met with an assault on the senses that I had not expected. The air was heavy with incense and the smoke of hookah pipes. It was stiflingly warm and I found it difficult to draw in a proper breath. All around there was a crowd of men, women, and children in a circle surrounding some fascinating center.

As I pushed my way through the crowd, I was surrounded on all sides by the spectators' muttering and whispers. Finally, I made my way close enough to the front to see over the heads of those in my way. What met my gaze was like nothing I had ever seen before, and nothing I would ever see again. It was as if detached images, plucked from my boyhood dreams and nightmares, conjured up by the mesmerizing tales I had found in some forbidden book, beaten and old, had been arranged together in that tent to haunt me yet again. In the center of the circle of captivated onlookers was a large chair, reclined and looking rather worse for wear. In it was seated the most extraordinary sight I had ever seen.

A man, clad in a Chinese robe in the shades of a peacock's bold plumage, leaned back in the chair, his ankles crossed on the footrest before him. His hands were folded serenely in his lap, the long, bony fingers intertwined like reeds in a basket. His hair was black as night, groomed back into a slick mass against his scalp, trimmed to reach just past the edge of his skull in the back. His thin frame was draped carelessly over the cushion of the chair as he surveyed the crowd, an amused expression in his eyes. (I recall being faintly amused that he should be studying them, when they came to gawk at him.) And on his face—a mask. A black silk mask, covering his entire face and leaving only the greyish skin of his forehead to be seen. The children gasped and their parents looked on, fascinated by the sight before them. After five minutes had passed, the man stood, to the shock of the crowd. He did not speak; he merely took a breath... and sang.

The notes washed over us, silencing every throat, causing chills to run through our bodies and tears to come to our eyes. It was the voice of an angel, powerful, yet beautiful. He sang in Russian, for this particular fair was in St. Petersburg, but every soul in that tent, whether French or Italian, Indian or Chinese, understood the story he wove of love and denial. It came to an end too soon, and the silence that followed was broken only by the occasional sniff. The man then took a shuddering breath and bellowed, in a tone strangely laced with sadness, "Behold! Your Angel of Hell!"

At that moment, he brought his left hand to his face and ripped the mask off of it, exposing the horror beneath. His face evoked screams of pure terror, and immediately, all those around me stampeded towards the way out. I alone remained, frozen in place, my eyes glued to the sight before me. His face was yellowish-green, almost transparent over the skull beneath and riddled with blue veins. His eyes hid deep in their sockets, like two black caves, only a golden shimmer staring from within. He had no nose whatsoever, as if he had never had one to begin with. As I continued to stare, rendered completely immobile by my fascination, his face contorted in anger, a low snarl escaping his lipless mouth, his teeth bared in fury. This new shock freed me from my spellbound trance and I quickly began to stammer excuses and explanations.

"Forgive me, sir, I meant no rudeness. I was merely... stunned. I have never... seen..."

He scowled at me before adjusting his mask on his face and tying the black ribbon at the back of his head. As he turned on the oil lamp on the small table next to him, the golden shine which I had previously acknowledged as his eyes dimmed and grew black.

"Who are you, imbecile?" This direct insult was hardly expected by me, a high-ranking police inspector for the Shah of Persia! "What do you want, pestering me like one of those damned African flies?"

"I am... I work for the Shah of Persia, and I am here to request, on his behalf, your presence at the royal court." This was the task his holiness had given me, but it did not seem to impress this Angel as it would the average man.

"You can tell him that I am not interested." He picked a grape from a cluster in a bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth, chewed quickly with his teeth gnashing, and swallowed, such as one with congested sinuses eats.

"Not... not interested? I don't think you realize-"

"I assure you, I am no foreigner to the Persian culture, but still I tell you, I am not interested."

"This is no mere invitation, sir, but the request of a king! His godliness is granted what he desires!"

"I'd prefer you didn't use such a ridiculous title. That man is in no way a god." His treacherous insult towards his majesty shocked me, but the smooth voice with which he delivered it distracted me from his words.

"I think it would be best-"

"I think it would be best if you left me now."

He walked towards an opening in the opposite wall, his dazzling robe swirling behind him.

"I'll be here again tomorrow!" I called out, knowing perfectly well that he could hear me, though he gave no reply.

I left the tent, realizing that this was no mere man in my way. It would take a sweeter honey to tempt this fly.


	2. Ventriloquism

The next day, I went back to the fair. Once more, it was bustling with life, all around booths and tents beckoning, merchants shouting their wares in harsh barking tones. I was fascinated by this little world within a city, where anything and everything was allowed and accepted. However, I was beginning to wish that I was back in my own land, where the tongues of those pushing their products on me would form the familiar syllables of my own native language. I would not allow myself to leave, though, until I had this strange man as a part of my traveling party. If I did not, it would result in the loss of many dear things in my life: my job, my savings—my head.

As I walked up to the tent, the bitter wind of the fall air bit my nose and cheeks and I hastened through the early-morning darkness towards my target. The tent stood as grandly as it had the day before, once more enticing me at once. The same large, bearded man pulled the flap aside for me, but this time with a rather puzzled look upon his face. No doubt, I was the first man to see the wonders the tent's red folds of fabric held and then return to see them again. I assure you, if my life had not depended on it, I would have abandoned the pursuit of that arrogant little... But I could not, and so I entered.

He was seated once more in his chair, looking like some kind of Greek god except for the mask covering his face. In his lap was a book, beaten and worn, the pages falling out, which he was flipping through lazily. It was titled, simply, Ventriloquism. I approached him quietly so as not to disturb him, but without even glancing up, when I was five feet away from him he smirked and muttered to himself,

"And so the fly returns."

It shocked me that he could have known who had entered without my having made a single identifying noise or movement. I was intrigued.

"Sir—how did you know it was I?"

"It is simple, Daroga. Your left boot has an odd little squeak to it, you walk with your legs close together, so your pant legs can be heard rubbing against one another, and you filled the room with reluctance as soon as you stepped in." The way he said this as though it should have been obvious to an infant bemused me, but he continued. "What is it this time?"

"The same as last time, I'm afraid, His godliness—"

"What did I say about that title, Daroga?!?" He glared up at me now, and in the darkness of the pre-dawn morning, his eyes shone gold once more.

"You...you thought it...inappropriate, sir?"

"Hah!" he barked. "Inappropriate... Tell me, Daroga, do you truly think that I will ever give in to your feeble attempts? Neither you, nor 'his godliness' impress me one bit, and I have no interest in seeing your wretched country again." With that, he sunk once more into his chair, this time laying the book gently down upon the table. I decided to go a different route.

"What was that you were reading just now?"

"Oh, that," he sighed, stroking the book's bindings gently. "Merely a gift from long ago."

"Do you study ventriloquism, sir?" I was hoping if I kept him talking like this, I would detect a weak point not yet noticed.

"Do I study—Daroga, do you see this book?" He gesticulated at it fiercely. "Does that look like an under-read piece of literature to you?" I smiled slightly at his sarcasm.

"No, sir, I can't say it does. Could you give me a sample of your skills, then?" This time it was he who smiled. He heaved a sigh and sunk back into his chair.

Suddenly, from just outside of the tent, I heard the bearded man.

"You know, Erik, that pesky fly just doesn't seem to leave."

Astonished by the man's rudeness, I strode quickly to the door, pulled open the flap, and was preparing to tell off that insolent manservant, when I noticed that he was no longer outside of the tent. Confused, I turned back to the man, this "Erik" in the chair.

He chuckled softly. A whisper came beside my left ear.

"Yes, you could say it's a hobby of mine." I started and walked briskly over to him.

"Where did you learn such a thing?"

"A bit of reading goes a long way, sir." He petted his book lovingly, a mixture between nostalgia and wistfulness in his eyes.

"Who gave you that book? You mentioned its being a gift."

At these words, the look in his eyes changed to annoyance.

"What is it, exactly, that you want, Daroga?"

"To put it bluntly, I need you to cooperate. If I come back to the Shah empty-handed, it will be my head, sir, and my son has no mother to care for him." I felt tears fill my eyes. "I need you to do as I say, sir, please."

The anger left his eyes and he rose, like a raven, from his chair.

"Do you really let that man control your life so much?"

"I have no choice but to serve his majesty well."

He stood, pensively stroking his mask-clad chin, for a few moments and then spoke hesitantly, reluctantly, like one who knows there is no going back.

"Very well, Daroga. I will indulge you and your Shah." He looked about the tent, eyeing his few possessions. "We leave tomorrow morning."

"Tomorr— Sir, I was not prepared for this! I have packing, arranging...payments to be made! It will take at least a few days!"

He walked to the door he had left through the day before, pausing just before exiting through it to turn to face me. He spoke decisively, with a power that left me speechless.

"We leave tomorrow morning."

And with that, he was gone. I had nothing left to do but rush back to my rooms at the inn and inform my manservant, Darius, to have everything packed and ready to leave at 6:00 in the morning for the ventriloquist's tent. Little did I know then that, looking back, I would wish I had chosen the Shah's wrath over a companionship with this Angel of Death.


End file.
